


to die, to sleep

by nightflower



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Depression, Disturbing imagery in dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, Jon Snow is a sad boy, Post-Canon, The Starks are wargs, suicide ideation, tragically canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 14:35:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19947772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightflower/pseuds/nightflower
Summary: The journey from King's Landing to the true north, and what comes after.





	to die, to sleep

The air in Jon's cell is like a blanket, warm and damp. Winter must have come to King's Landing by now, but the temperature never changes. He wonders if they know that he would prefer to sit in the cold, and made sure that he would be uncomfortable. He wouldn't be surprised. Perhaps keeping him in discomfort is a consolation for not being able to kill him outright.

Jon shifts uncomfortably on the cot he's lying on. He's sitting up in an effort to avoid sleep, back against the wall, but every few minutes he's seeing double and listing to the side before he can shake himself awake. Every night in King's Landing is like this - a battle against the siren call of sleep. It’s a battle that he loses often, as there is nothing in his cell to distract from his burning eyes except his own dark thoughts. He keeps fighting anyway because when he sleeps, he dreams.

_Fire rages through the city, a cruel red glow. Nothing, no one can stop it - it roars like the dragon it was born of, tightens his skin with the heat. Despite the noise, he can hear the screaming, the running footsteps, the desperation. A shadow falls over him, and the wind stirs unnaturally. He waits for his flesh to spark, for death to deliver him from this carnage, and -_

_Jon is standing in the husk of the throne room. Ash dances through the air around them. Him and her. Her eyes are bright with her passion, her conviction. Jon thinks:_ no, not again, I can't do it. _His body moves without his permission; he is a doll on strings. He sees her burning eyes, tastes her lips and feels when the dagger finds its new home. The manic light - the love, the hunger - transforms to horror transforms to nothing at all. He moves to take out the dagger and put it through his own heart this time but -_

_But -_

_Her eyes open. Blood drips from the corner of her mouth while her gaze accuses him. "Did you ever love me?" she asks, voice as cold as winter. "Did you ever believe in me?"  
She sits up, then, a dead girl rising - just like him. "Did you mean it even once, when you called me Queen? When you said you loved me?"_

_He is a frozen thing before her, watching as she gets mechanically to her feet. The dagger is still in her, but she does not seem to care. When he meets her eyes again, they are Valyrian steel._

_"Dracarys," she says, and flames bloom from above him, eat at his clothes, melt away his skin, and -_

He wakes up - chest heaving, heart pounding, sweaty. Jon has no concept of how much time has passed, but he doesn't feel rested. He doesn't remember falling asleep, even, and his neck is aching its protest at the awkward angle he’d subjected it to. Jon doesn't know how long he sits there in the dark, breathing in and out, feeling the ghost of a fiery death that he thinks he wouldn't mind.

*

On the road north, numbness blankets Jon just as the snows do the fields. The first leg of the journey is by sea, which matters little to him. Jon sits in the dinky cabin assigned to him, and stares at the wall. His escorts take turns watching over him; he hasn't bothered to ask why. They're even there when he sleeps, which he might pity them for. He is sure that they sleep as much as he does, which is not much at all.

"Dinner," one of them grunts now, handing over a rough plate before moving to the other side of the cabin. Jon inhales it without tasting, sets the dish on the floor. Scoots back across his bed until his back is to the wall.

Eventually, his companion curls on the other cot squeezed into the room, and Jon lies down too, because there is nothing else to do.

_He's standing in Winterfell's training yard, and he looks around in wonder. This is the Winterfell of his childhood, before betrayal and war scarred it. He can hear laughter, the echoes of the forge, the bustle of a healthy keep._

_"Snow! Pay attention!"_

_Jon's heart freezes, and he turns to see if that voice belongs to who he thinks it does, and the rest of him freezes at the sight. It's Robb, red Tully hair burning in the summer sun, a training sword in his hand. His brother smiles - smirks, more like - and opens his mouth, and Jon feels like his heart might burst -_

_A shadow falls, and Jon tries to squeeze his eyes shut, but instead finds his chin brought inexorably upward so he is forced to see what is casting the shadow. People start screaming, and he wants to yell for them to run but he can't, he can't. Above him, Drogon flaps his wings, and Jon can see a figure with silver hair on his back. The dragon swoops lower, and Jon realizes with dawning horror that Drogon's eyes are blue. Daenerys' are too, burning with cold fury. Jon can see with vivid clarity that her skin is hanging from her face, rotten, but before he can make a horrified study of her appearance, the world is engulfed in blue flames._

*

Jon does not feel any differently traveling by land than he did by sea. The horse beneath him has a chestnut coat and a steady gait despite the deepening snow. His breath steams the air, when the wind doesn’t steal it away. The journey has been quiet. All of Westeros is cold, hungry and tired, the North more so than anyone. No travelers meet them on the road. Jon listens to the crunch of hooves in snow, and the quiet conversation of his companions. 

“This is mild for winter,” Byran says now, “We can see for miles and everything, and I for one’ve still got feeling in all me toes.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Willem, a southron if there ever was one, grumbles. 

Even if the weather is holding, it is almost no time at all before the sun sinks below the horizon. Jon moves on instinct, with dread building in his chest, as they put together their camp. Tents go up, furs across the floors. Fire built, game roasted. Jon lies down, curling up beneath the fur. He doesn’t bother trying to fight the pull of sleep anymore. 

_His eyes open to bleak nothing, and he knows that he is dead. A void surrounds him on all sides. Somehow, he is able to step forward although his feet aren’t touching anything - there’s nothing to touch. He doesn’t feel relieved, or afraid. He doesn’t feel anything at all, doesn’t let himself, because he already knows what happens next._

_The darkness lights up blindingly bright, a fire going from spark to inferno with improbable speed. Jon throws his arm up to protect his eyes, and when he blinks away the sunspots, she’s standing there. Her silver hair and silver dress are both on fire, but she’s uncaring as she strides forward. Fire, her favorite weapon, reaches for him through the void._

_“Queenslayer!” she names him, voice high and cold, “Kinslayer! Why have you betrayed me, my love?”_

_She steps closer to him, and Jon is mesmerized by her. This Daenerys is perfectly intact, for all that she is on fire and furious. When she reaches for him, the fire jumps from her to him, and he is not immune._

Jon wakes with the taste of ashes in his mouth.

*

_His steps are silent as he glides over the crust of glittering snow. Above, the moon is full and bright, its silver rays lighting the ground even through the canopy of trees. He can hear his little cousins howling their joy in the distance, but he keeps his silence. His long legs eat the miles quickly, and soon he can barely smell man anymore. Pine, crisp snow, not what he is looking for. Wind fusses at his fur, but the trees keep the worst from him. Eventually, he smells what he’s been hunting for. Prey, hares hiding in the snow. Hiding from the likes of him. He stalks forward into the shadows…_

When he wakes, the first thing Jon does is roll over and spit, trying to rid himself of the taste of blood lingering in his mouth. Then he reaches up and touches his cheeks, feeling the dampness of tears. He wipes them away hastily, sits up on the furs and hugs his knees to himself. Something in him that had been quietly aching since he left the North - or maybe since Rhaegal had plunged from the sky - or maybe since he’d died - loosens its hold on him. _Ghost,_ he thinks, _I’m coming._

*

Castle Black looms over them and the gates open with little fanfare. Jon feels a certain amount of irony as he nudges his horse forward, if that counts as an emotion. Byran and Willem look relieved, and Jon can’t blame them. They all step forward into the yard and -

The first thing Jon sees is Tormund, who towers over most people and has bright hair besides; the second is Ghost, who barrels toward him before he even dismounts. Jon hops down from his horse and kneels to catch the blur of white fur, and he feels an echo of joy that both is his and isn’t - he surprises himself when a short laugh is forced out of him. He buries his face into Ghost’s course fur and promises himself: _never again_. They would never be separated again. 

Jon isn’t exactly sure how long he kneels there, but his knees are cold and damp and his escorts have moved off to talk with other remnants of the Night’s Watch. When Jon pushes himself to his feet, Tormund gathers him into a back-cracking hug. The wildling steps back and peers at Jon's face. Jon stares back, not thinking of much at all except that he is strangely glad to see him.

"Little crow," Tormund says softly, the look on his face even softer. Jon doesn’t respond, but Tormund doesn’t look away, studying him with care, and Jon feels something icy in him melt. Tormund lets the words linger for a moment longer, a gentler overture than the hug had been. "You look exhausted."

Another surprise - Jon finds himself making a sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. From the look on Tormund’s face, it is probably closer to the latter. But he doesn’t lose his composure, not yet. Jon just nods, and Tormund wraps a hand around his shoulder and leads him inside.

*

Being north - in the true north - makes the days easier, but the nights are no better. He dreams of betraying Daenerys. He dreams of being crushed outside of Winterfell. He dreams of dragonfire. He dreams of waking up with stab wounds in his chest. Twisted versions of things he'd lived through, replaying again and again.

Jon wakes screaming sometimes, and on those nights Tormund's arm slung around him is not comfort enough. Tonight is one of those nights, and he sits outside by one of the fires with Ghost resting his huge head on Jon’s knee.

Jon glances up at the sound of snow crunching underfoot, and sees an older man approaching. Jon imagines that this man probably looks older than he is, wizened by the Long Night and the trials before; most of the old among the Free Folk had perished, unable to run, unable to fight. Jon doesn't know his name; he wonders if he's about to be told off for waking the camp.

"Do you dream green, boy?" the man asks abruptly.

Jon is startled by the question, and blurts out an answer without thinking about it. "No." 

"Well," the man says thoughtfully, "That's alright then."

Jon stares after him as he walks on to another fire.

*

Jon blinks, going from asleep to awake in seconds. He considers this curiously, because he feels… peaceful. His heart and hands are steady. Tormund is snoring softly at his back, and gray sunlight is pooling on the floor of their tent. He feels rested, Jon realizes. He feels... Rested.

Movement captures his attention, and Jon tracks Ghost's movements as his loyal friend uncurls from his spot by the exit and wanders over. The direwolf wags his tail once and licks Jon's hand, and then his face.

Something about that wakes Tormund - perhaps Ghost's breath had brushed his skin, and there was nothing like a direwolf breathing on you while you slept to spook you awake. The other man groans softly, tightens his hold on Jon. Jon shifts to make himself more comfortable, and Tormund makes a surprised noise.

"You're awake. You slept?"

Jon nods, smiles shallowly.

*  
_Darkness surrounds Jon, an uninterrupted field of shadows. He waits, resigned, for something to happen._

_Nothing happens._

_Jon looks around, confused, acutely aware that he is dreaming. When silence continues to reign, he takes a hesitant step forward. His feet find a floor, even though he sees none. He walks._

_Jon isn’t sure how long he walks, but he realizes abruptly that the shadows have definition, now. They almost look like trees, with leaves shaking in the wind. A soft gray light with no source puts the creases of tree bark in sharp relief. There is no wind to feel, but Jon can hear the whispers of leaves moving._

Caw, caw - _a raven’s throaty cry echoes around him. Jon stops, a shiver running down his spine. He hears the flapping of wings, and out of the darkness comes a bird._

_It's at least as large as his head, with inky black feathers that glisten in the diffuse light. Jon knows that it has three eyes, even though he can only see two. The Three Eyed Raven lands on a branch near Jon's head and opens its beak, letting loose another call. Jon thinks the raven sounds awfully satisfied, although he couldn’t say why he thought that._

_After fluffing up its feathers, the Three Eyed Raven takes wing and flies past Jon; true darkness spreads in its wake._

*

After that, Jon barely dreams for weeks. When he wakes he only recalls flashes - gray banners, fields of snow, stone walls, the sunset glittering on the ocean. But these fragments of dreams seem to follow him into his waking hours. 

He hears the friendly crackle of a roaring hearth fire when he is hunting with Ghost, where there is no fire for miles. He smells the salt of the sea when they are so far inland there is no chance the wind could be carrying it. He tastes stew when he is eating dried meat; he hears yelling in a language he does not understand. On one notable occasion, the world seemed to rock as if he was in a ship, and he was desperately nauseous for an entire day. 

Tormund watches him with more concern in his eyes than usual, and Jon wonders if he is finally going mad.

*  
Jon is in Winterfell. He is dreaming. These two facts he knows from the moment his eyes open. Looking around, he tries to find Drogon and Daenerys, or Viserion, or Ramsay, or whatever horror has come to torment him this night. It’s been far too long since his last nightmare. 

He finds instead that he is looking at repairs in progress. This is not a sight that he has ever seen for himself. He had departed from Winterfell to fight with Daenerys after the Battle for the Dawn, and had not returned to it on his way to the Wall. Repairs were desperately needed, this he had known, and here they were before his eyes. Where walls had been torn down, new stone was being erected in its place. The debris had been removed, the cobbles of the courtyard had been replaced.

Jon's feet propel him into the keep with no input from him. The halls are empty of people, so he walks on unimpeded. There is little in the way of decoration or wealth, but there is no dust, no ashes, no cracked stone. His home - his old home - is being restored to its former glory. Vaguely, Jon wonders if he does dream green after all.

Eventually, he finds himself outside his father's - uncle's - Sansa's, now - solar. He hesitates in front of the door, but finds that he wants to see what the inside looks like now. Jon runs his fingers over the smooth wood of the door, and then pushes it open. He steps inside, only to stop in his tracks.

A fire crackles in the hearth, spreading warmth and light through the chamber. A worn rug is spread over the floor. As there always was, a large desk dominates the space, with a chair behind it. This is not what surprises Jon.

On the chair sits Sansa, looking like the perfect Queen of Winter in a gray gown, with her flaming hair as her crown. Beside her stands Arya, also in the Stark colors - her clothes are stained with salt, her boots worn with wear. And perched comfortably on the corner of the desk is the Three Eyed Raven, inky feathers seeming almost too dark, as if they were stealing light from the fire. 

Arya's face breaks into a wide smile, and she strides across the room. "I thought you would never join us!" She grabs him into a brief hug that he is too surprised to return, and laces their fingers together. Her fingers are cold, Jon notes absently.

"Join you?" he echoes, looking between all of them, unable to decide who or what to focus on.

"Here, we mean. In our dream." Arya continues. Sansa's sharp eyes are flicking between the two of them, something like amusement shining in them.

"Our dream?"

Arya punches his shoulder. “Quit that."

At that, Jon decides to stare at Arya alone, trying to understand what she was saying. He examines her face, her windblown hair. He studies the evidence of sea travel on her clothes. He glances around the room again, at the crackling of the fire and the Three Eyed Raven’s black feathers. All of those pieces coalesce into an idea.

"I've been sensing you,” Jon says slowly, “Sensing Winterfell and the sea - feeling it, seeing it, dreaming it."

Smiling again, Arya pulls him toward the desk, to a chair that is waiting for him.

"It's bloody cold where you are, Jon," says Sansa, amusement coloring her voice.

"And we're... Having the same dream?".

"We've been having it for ages. But Bran - the Raven - whatever, made it clear that you weren't ready to join us." Arya explains.

"But you are now - so tell us what you've seen," Sansa finishes. Jon isn’t sure he remembers the last time she looked so happy, but if the Winterfell around them is what it looks like in life he thinks she deserves it. Being Queen suits her better than being King ever did him. 

Jon does not know how long they talk, or if time passes in the way he understands it in a dream. But they share with each other what has happened to them so far - Arya's adventures at sea, Sansa's days as sovereign of the North, and Jon's life with the Free Folk. There's something sad and knowing in Sansa's eyes when he glosses over his troubles, but she does not ask. The Three Eyed Raven, who apparently never appears in the dreams in their brother’s body, watches and listens. Jon is guiltily glad at the lack of participation - he is not sure if he could handle news of King’s Landing. 

Later, in the comfortable quiet that comes when all the words have been spilled, Jon reaches for his sisters hands, contemplates them. They feel real. He can feel the calluses on their fingers - from swords and ropes on Arya's hands, from reins and writing on Sansa's.

"Why is this happening?" Jon asks.

Sansa’s smile turns somber, then. "I think you already know."

And Jon does, as surely as he feels the stare of the Raven’s third eye. Whatever happened next - in this winter, or the ones to come - no Stark would be the lone wolf.


End file.
